Lucky
by chaoswalking
Summary: Gareth Laul, a young Breton, has always been told he has a way with words. But when he and his father are robbed of all their gold, he must move from his native Bravil to Imperial City to start his own life. There, the Dark Brotherhood are watching...
1. Chapter 1: Thieves

"You have a way with words, Gareth Laul," the traveler said in passing, rain slicking down his graying face. "A way with words can get you anywhere,"

Gareth watched him go. The dark elf was stooped low with bundles and sacks, his dirt-colored rags clinging to him with water. The Green Road was vast and long to him, and the tiny elf seemed to be swallowed by the deep fissures and cracks in its earthen surface.

He pocketed the ten gold, and sighed. Gareth had no hope of ever leaving Bravil. From the tips of his gold Breton hair to the toes of his worn leather boots, bought on his father's meager Guard salary, he was a native Breton, through and through.

He turned back, and wandered the sloping trail back to Bay Roan Stables' sloping, chipped wooden form. The morning air was dark and dense with fog. He waved a half-hearted hello to Antoine Branck.

"Gareth!" Antoine smiled languidly, and waved from behind the fence. "Got a few discount paints, here. Cheap. Need a steed, boy?" he motioned to a huddled group of bony, morbid-faced horses.

"No thanks, Antoine," Gareth called back. The red-faced man tried to sell him one every day. "Got to run the gold down to my father before he gets edgy."

The man nodded knowledgeably, and went back to raking the downtrodden grass of the Stables.

Across the dilapidated wooden bridge, and through the heavy, wooden front gate of Bravil. Gareth had run the same path for five years, ever since he was old enough to trade with the few traveling merchants on the Green Road.

A harried-looking City Guard smiled vaguely at him. Gareth knew him; it was Yaxley Benirus, a friend of his father's. The Imperial's eyes were ringed with tired circles, a red-purple.

"All right, Gareth?" he sighed, his chain mail clinking softly as he scratched an arm.

Gareth nodded.

"You?"

"Ah, you know. A couple of rotten thieves from Leyawiin robbed Silverhome on the Water last night, the skooma-sucking bastards." He was showing signs of going into a rant, which was Gareth's cue to move on.

He lived in a small, okay enough apartment overlooking the Lucky Old Lady. The walls were thin and splintered, the floor buckling, but he could afford a few thick woolen rugs and a nice sleeping cot, which was more than most. He ascended the steps that twined like snakes up the rickety building, and thumped noisily across the walkway, high above the streets. An old Argonian woman grumbled at him from her peeling stoop.

His father was waiting for him at the table.

"You got some gold?" he asked, eagerly, standing up to hug his son. Timothee Laul was a desperate looking man. His long copper hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, revealing his lined, anxious face. Eyes a startling blue, the same blue as Gareth, were set into sun-tanned skin.

"Yes. A Dunmer with an appetite bought the ale off of me a little ways up the Green Road,"

Timothee smiled, and rubbed his hands together.

"Excellent, excellent. Right, then. Give it to me," he brandished a gloved hand. He was still wearing his uniform; the yellow crest featuring a twisted stag was slightly stained.

Gareth hesitated for a moment, savoring the feel of the heavy gold in his pocket, then breathed out, and fished it out of the fabric.

Timothee counted the thick disks. Nine, ten. He smiled again, and patted his son on the shoulder.

"Almost enough, Gareth. Almost enough to move into a bigger apartment. Maybe near the water? What do you think, away from crazy old Ursanne Loche and City-Swimmer?"

He could only nod and force a smile. The morning was still early, the sun barely clinging to the sticky, clouded sky. There was a day to enjoy.

But Gareth couldn't help but wish. Wish that they didn't need the gold. His father always wanted more. More gold, more house, more oppurtunities.

But the one thing Gareth knew Timothee Laul didn't want more of, was his son.

"Hey, Gareth, check this out!" Lathon Litte looked more than a little drunk. The young Redguard was grinning widely, his arm around a giggling Bosmer girl. "Elysnia here's got seven stolen property arrests. _Seven!_" he cracked up again. The Wood Elf drooled a little.

"Lathon, what in the name of Akatosh are you doing here so early in the morning?"

Lathon rolled his eyes.

"Just celebrating another successful adventure," he hiccupped. "Found a boatload of jewels and the like in that old Ayleid ruin."

Lathon came from wealthy stock. His family ran a series of shops in Imperial City, but they cut him off when he started to adventure for profit. He moved to Bravil, set up in the nearest bar, and started to meet girls right away. He and Gareth were quick to be friends.

The Bosmer girl was now snoring loudly into the folds of her own skirt. Gareth carefully picked his way around her, and seated himself next to Lathon, who looked decidedly more sober than he had a minute ago.

His friend peered into his face.

"Why the long face, Gareth?" Lathon frowned anxiously. "No merchants today?"

"No, no,"

"Ursanne try to guilt you into finding her husband?"

"Uh, no."

"Because seriously, that lady is hell bent on finding that old bastard,"

"No, Lathon,"

"Then what?"

Gareth groaned. Lathon was only trying to help, but he could really talk an earful. But the Redguard had also set off on his own, to make his own life. Not one carved out by his father. It was worth a shot…

"Lathon, you think I have a way with words?" he regretted it the minute he said it. Surely his friend would laugh him off, talk some sense into him.

"What, like a merchant? Sure, Gareth. Sure, you do." Lathon replied, his face containing no trace of cruelty or laughter.

With this, he pulled from behind him two large, frothing mugs of ale.

"To us!" he roared, and Gareth couldn't help but smile.

They came in the night. Three of them, dressed in thick black cotton. An Argonian, a High Elf and a Breton. All of the gold, stuffed into a small sack.

There was no hope of stopping them. Timothee tried, raising his rusty old sword in front of him, and brandishing it at the robbers.

"Stop right there, criminal scum!" he snarled. "You have violated the law. Pay the fine or serve your sentence,"

"Shut up, old man," the Argonian woman laughed, waving her heavy scaled tail tauntingly behind her.

"By the Nine!" Timothee shrieked, outraged. "I'll have you executed, you skooma-sucking wastrels–"

Gareth elbowed him.

"Shut up, Father, it isn't worth it," he hissed. "They don't care,"

"I'll have their heads," his father wasn't listening. "I swear, if the Count hears about this–"

"Regulus Terentius is a good-for-nothing drunk," the Breton sneered. "He doesn't care about an old Guard and his son,"

With that, the three pushed their way through the door, and were off into the night. Gareth could hear Ursanne Loche, pleading with one of them to find her husband. It gave him only a small amount of joy to hear the High Elf's frustrated growls.

All their gold was gone. Five years worth of it. Enough to buy a nicer apartment, enough for a new life. In the hands of some gang of ugly thieves.

Timothee slumped on the bed, looking destroyed. His tired, weathered face was defeated, his hair strewn messily about his shoulders.

"It's over, Gareth," he sighed, his head in his hands. "We're done."

The door, blown open, let in a silken stream of faded moonlight.

He had an idea.

"Father," Gareth started, nervously. "What do you think about the Green Road?"

Timothee shrugged.

"A road to Imperial City," he said forlornly. "Why?"

He took a deep breath.

"I think I can make it big in the City as a merchant,"

Timothee looked up, his eyebrows raised.

"A merchant? Gareth…" he looked unsure.

"Look, we have no choice. You're getting too old for Guard duty, and I don't have a job," he pleaded. "Please, I have too."

The air from outside was suddenly extremely cold. The sound of a beggar wandering the streets mournfully echoed up the dirty streets.

His father raised his head, and nodded.

"If you must."


	2. Chapter 2: Beware the Green Road

He packed what little he had; a pair of laced leather pants, a leather cuirass, a hood that retained a bit of magic, and was supposed to aid him in sneaking, and his own sword.

It was just a normal steel blade, enchanted to inflict icy pain into his opponent's wounds. Not that Gareth had had any need for it, recently. It had no name, just a thin line of rust running up it in looping spirals.

Gareth shoved it in his bag, and started out the door. He paused, however, to look over his apartment one last time.

There was a note, pinned to the wall. He peeled it off with dread and second-thoughts already swimming up against the back of his skull.

_Dear Gareth, _it read.

_This might be the last I get to say to you, so please listen. Despite everything, I still love you. The Imperial City has everything you'll need, and I'm sure you will find a girl there to settle down with a start a family._

_ Sincerely, Timothee Laul, Frostfall 13__th_

_ P.S. Beware the Green Road. Bandits and robbers aren't the worst that prowl there._

"Gareth?" Lathon was jogging after him, his own armor clanking. "Gareth, where in Tamriel do you think you're going?"

Gareth kept walking.

"Sorry, Lathon, this doesn't concern you," he called over his shoulder. Gareth crossed a bridge, making sure to keep a hand on the frayed ropes. He had no intention of plummeting into the murky, trailing rivers of the Niben Bay.

"Gareth!" Lathon shouted. His voice was high-pitched with sharp anger. Gareth stopped halfway across the bridge, feeling it say beneath him.

"What, Lathon?"

The young Redguard had blocked the bridge, arms crossed, and face set in determination. In his expensive glass armor, glowing green with sticky magic, he looked quite threatening.

"I heard about the thieves," he said, finally. "Sorry. Benirus told me."

Gareth groaned.

"What are you getting at, Lathon?" he whined. He wanted to get out of Bravil early, before the locals started to pester him. "I'm on a schedule."

Lathon started across towards him, realization dawning on his face.

"You're going to Imperial City, aren't you?" he gasped. The bridge swayed. "You weren't joking, last night at the Silverhome. You're actually going."

Gareth ran a hand through his short hair. He wasn't looking for a confrontation.

There was an awkward silence, in which an errant mudcrab scuttled unseen below the planks of the bridge.

And Lathon started to laugh.

"By Azura! You were actually considering going _without_ me!" he guffawed. "I can't believe it!"

His face reddening, Gareth crossed his arms.

"Oh, and why is this so funny?" he raised an eyebrow.

"You can't fight your way out of a bar fight with a mudcrab, let alone get to Imperial City!" Lathon stopped laughing long enough to look into Gareth's disgruntled face, and shrug. "Come on. You can't possibly leave without me. I know the area, I know a sword," a sneaky look, "I know the taverns on the way. It will be great!"

Despite the dire circumstances, Gareth, his heart considerably lighter, started to laugh as well.

They set off immediately. In the sharp morning air, the smell of the trees and the wilderness was overwhelmingly foreign to Gareth, who had never set foot much beyond the Bay Roan Stables. His best friend, however, could not have been more at home.

Antoine Branck appeared at the gate again, his ruddy cheeks speckled with dirt.

"Off to the city, I hear," he called to them as they passed. "Won't get far without a good horse to carry you,"

Lathon looked at Gareth, who shrugged.

"No money, remember?"

Lathon turned to Antoine.

"We'll take whatever you've got, my good sir,"

A good half-hour later, they were a mile down the Green Road on the back of a sturdy, slow-eyed paint. Gareth had long since grown accustomed to the sound of her hooves on the shoddy cobbles of the path, and, in fact, he was getting bored.

"How long till we get to a tavern?" he asked Lathon as they paused to eat at the side of the road.

"Now you want to drink," his friend smiled slyly, and chewed on a wedge of cheese. "I don't exactly know. We may not get far before nightfall."

Gareth was about to reply, when he caught something out of the corner of his vision. Down north, there was someone coming.

Lathon saw it first. He motioned for Gareth to take the horse's reins, and slowly drew his sword, Shadowbringer.

Grabbing the reins, Gareth tried to force the horse into the scrubbed vegetation. It refused to budge.

"Hurry up, Gareth!" Lathon hissed from the bushes. "They're coming!"

"Dammit, I'm trying!" the horse's lips were pulled back with the effort of chewing a tuft of grass. It neighed lazily at the young Breton as he tried to pull it.

Suddenly, it bolted. Whinnying wildly, it clacked its hooves on the cobblestones, and beat it into the brush, where Lathon just managed to grab a rein. There was a single, quivering arrow in its haunches. A scarlet trickle of blood ran down its silky side.

And Gareth was in the middle of the road.

He drew his own rusty sword, sparks of meek magic convulsing and squirming on the blade.

But there, three dark shapes against the dazzling blue sky, were the faces Gareth would never forget. An Argonian, a High Elf, and a Breton.

"By the Nine," he managed to breath, before the thieves let forth a torrent of arrows. "It's them."


	3. Chapter 3: Detours

** NOTE: Okay, I should have written this about two chapters ago, but I do not own Bethesda or Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. I only own my characters.**

** Also, sorry about the formatting. My computer isn't exactly cooperative, so whenever it seems like a completely different scene it's…a completely different scene. Enjoy!**

Gareth stood there for a minute. His sword felt unreasonably heavy in his hands. Then, with a bark of recognition, the thieves started towards him.

"Lathon!" he shouted, twisting around. His friend was on the side of the road, still grasping the horse's reins. "We've got to get out of here,"

Lathon nodded, sweat slicking his forehead. He sheathed Shadowbringer hastily. The horse seemed well enough, thought the arrow in its side was pulsating with rings of mess, scarlet blood.

He hopped on, Gareth right behind him, and kicked the horse.

"Come on, come on," Gareth hissed as the horse whinnied and Lathon groaned. "Let's go!"

Down the road, the High Elf was coming faster, his war hammer raised high. If anything, he more resembled an Orc with complexion problems.

"Lathon, we gotta run!" Gareth shouted.

"Gods, I know!" Lathon yelled back, frustrated. "I'm going to kill Antoine when we get back, that good-for-nothing idiot," just then he kicked out, hitting the arrow shaft. The horse let out a protest of neighs, and bolted again. Gareth grabbed onto Lathon, his heart pounding against his ribs.

He could hear the garbled swears of the ugly elf behind him. Trees whipped his face, slivers of green flashing in and out of his vision. In front of him, Lathon was giggling like a madman.

"Ha ha! Showed them, now, didn't we?" he turned briefly to grin at Gareth, but the horse was starting to veer, so he was forced to pull on the reins. "Whoa! Easy, horsie,"

Gareth was still shocked at the sight of the thieves. He shook his head, and took a deep breath, glad to be alive.

"Lathon, we should probably stop now. We're pretty far off road…"

"What? Oh, right. Now, how do I stop the horse? Damn, I'm not good with animals…"

Gareth sighed, and rolled his eyes. For a smart, rich guy, Lathon was hopeless at times.

…

They set up camp under a wide canopy of shaggy trees. Saturated moonlight speckled the gray grass ground, and the distorted howl of a wolf slithered through the night air.

Rolling out his sleeping cot, Gareth noticed a small package attached to his pack with thick twine. How had he not noticed it before? It was lumpy and deformed, little ridges poking through the thin paper.

He pulled it off, and unwrapped it suspiciously. Was it poison? Did he even have any enemies?

He let the contents fall onto the damp, dark grass. The gold pieces glinted and winked jauntily at him.

Gareth smiled. It seemed his father had a few tricks up his sleeves. Next to the coin stash was a small, smooth pink bottle, with clear liquid sloshing within it.

"Where'd you get healing potion, Gareth?" Lathon questioned from his cot, eyes wide.

But Gareth didn't answer, only smiled inwardly at himself, and lay down to sleep.

A few hours later, he awoke to a sharp, unfamiliar nose.

"Can I get a lift?" the Wood Elf girl poked him in the ribs. "My horse wandered back to Cloud Temple when I dropped into a ruin for a quick look,"

Gareth jumped up, and fumbled for his sword. The elf watched him trip over the disgruntled, half-asleep Lathon, with a thin eyebrow raised. She had thick honey-blonde hair, pulled into a ponytail, and a thin, angled face. Her armor, though chunky and mismatched, looked pricey and rare, and she had a hefty sword shoved into her belt. Strung across her back were several gnarled staffs.

"Where," Gareth squinted at her. She cocked her head.

"What?"

"Where did you…?"

"You don't make any sense." The elf looked bored. "I. Want. A. Ride." She articulated slowly, as if he was a dumb child. "You. Have. A. Horse."

"I'm not stupid."

Another raised eyebrow. She crossed her arms lazily.

"Okay, you know what? You're going to insult me, I'm not going to give you a ride," Gareth replied angrily, his face heating up.

"Oh, Azura! Are all Imperials this emotional?"

"Breton! I'm a Breton!" Gareth snapped as the elf flailed her arms in exasperation. "And yes, we are different!"

There was tense silence in which Gareth fumed, the elf smirked, and Lathon snored, blissfully unaware.

"Well?" the elf girl said, after a few moments. "I haven't got all day."

Gareth wanted to reply that yes, technically she did, but he just sighed, and nudged Lathon with his foot.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked. "Lathon, get up."

There was a grumble of protest from his friend. Something like "tired". Or maybe it was "troll". Gareth couldn't tell.

"I need to get to the Inn of Ill Omen," she replied, tapping her fingers impatiently on her tangled arms. "Fast. The name's Laenafil, by the way." She stuck out her gloved hand. A multitude of shimmering rings dotted her fingers.

"Gareth Laul." He didn't take her hand. She pursed her lips and withdrew it, casting a glance at Lathon's sleeping form.

"You guys have a rough night, or something?" she inquired nonchalantly. Her face was drawn in a look of amusement. She clearly thought they were amateur adventurers, kids caught up in some silly game. Laenafil looked around their age, though, and her haughty demeanor was humiliating.

"You could say that," Gareth motioned towards the horse. "I'm warning you, this thing is moody. It might not want to move."

Laenafil smiled, and flicked her ponytail over her shoulder.

"Of course it will," she said, patting the horse's shiny flank. It neighed contentedly a she swung up onto it. "And it's a girl, _Gareth_."

…...

They rode in complete silence. Gareth couldn't help but wish Lathon's people skills had rubbed off on him over the years. Laenafil was definitely up to something. Was she a bandit? A Fighter's Guild girl, bored and looking for blood? The more he thought about it, the more suspicious her request had seemed.

And Cloud Ruler Temple? He had no idea where the place was, let alone if it even existed. Oh, he was so gullible! Why had he come with her in the first place? He should have just let her have the stupid horse…

"We're here," Laenafil called curtly over her shoulder. Gareth peered around her, dreading what he might see.

It was just an inn. That was it. A small, slightly crooked building made of splintered gray wood, a thin wooden sign swinging from its roof. Early morning fog gathered sleepily about the cobbled road, and the sounds of drinking could be heard inside.

Laenafil dismounted, rolling her shoulders, and cracking her knuckles. She paused to look back at him.

"You want a drink, Gareth Laul?"

Inside, a few sleepy customers lounged around the bar, heads lolling into their ale tankards. But the atmosphere was generally pleasant. The wind gently caressed the roof, and a candle or two crackled lazily on the counter.

Laenafil slumped into a stool, and quickly ordered two ales. When she shoved her hand into her pack to retrieve payment, Gareth couldn't help but notice the slight metallic sound of wealth.

She spun around, clutching her drink, and grinning widely.

"So, got any embarrassing stories?" she said somewhat awkwardly.

"What, beside the one I just went through?"

"Ha ha, very funny. So you're a smartass, huh?" she slurped the ale unashamedly. "What're you doing on The Green Road?"

What should he tell her? For some reason, he had no desire to say a lizard lady robbed him in his pajamas.

"Oh, you know. I'm uh…uh…the son of the Countess' assistant in Leyawiin," he faked a little yawn, and sat down beside her. "Just on my way to the City to visit a few relatives."

She cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh really now? Rich boy, eh? Me too," she slammed the tankard down, and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Actually, I got all my gold from plundering them Ayleid ruins, but shh," she looked about, a bit dizzy in the eyes, and leaned in close. Gareth could tell she was drunk. "Don't tell."

She spent the rest of the early morning downing one heavy mug after another, her hair slowly coming out of her ponytail, and her eyes crossing continuously inward.

"You know?" she hiccupped, at about ten in the morning, when Gareth was starting to worry about leaving Lathon in the forest. "I almost married a troll once. He rejected me. I even bought a (hic) ring. Big fat one. Enchanted, too. Gave the user (hic) unlimited carrots,"

Gareth was starting to think she was making things up. She'd already confessed she was part mudcrab, on her brother's side, and she was the Champion of Cyrodiil, whatever that was.

"Damn, the daedroths, I say! Cheese! For everyone!" And with that, she fell to the floor, completely and utterly drunk.

…

Outside, a thick fog had gathered. Little greasy puddles of rain pooled in the street, and the horse stood obliviously among them, munching on some poor soul's stitched shoes.

"Hey! Get off of those!" Gareth tried to reach the horse, but he fell face first instead, his head spinning with ale. "They don't belong to me,"

The horse looked disapprovingly down at him, giggling into the muck, then began to lumber off, in the vague direction of the nearest stable.

Gareth swore rather colorfully, and attempted to kick the nearest deer.

Without getting up off the ground, he flipped onto his back, and stared at the sky. A clump of waterlogged clouds drifted heavily over the sun, sending the road into darkness again. It was only twelve. There was no merchants, no wandering travelers. Only a persnickety horse, and one very, _very_ drunk Breton.

He stayed there for a while. Something about the empty, morbid sky. He sighed.

Footsteps. They echoed in his spinning head. Three sets, coming this way.

"Do you wanna hear a Khajiit joke?" the first one was gnarled and feminine.

"Oh, not again, Never-Cleans-Her-Sword!" the second groaned haughtily. "I have no intention of knowing what a cat butt tastes like."

Never-Cleans-Her-Sword mumbled something angrily, and then stopped abruptly.

Gareth was painfully aware of three shadows, cutting through that dark, brooding sky.

"Well, well, well, a wasted Imperial. Lost your way back to the Guard barracks?" the High Elf sneered.

"I'm a…(hic) Breton," Gareth slurred. His head was hurting something terrible, and all he could see was the back of his eyelids, painted purple with his headache.

"Let's go, Elidor," the other Breton said, wearily. He was clearly the oldest, and the leader. "The Inn's open,"

He started off, his footfalls heavy on the muddied ground. But after a few steps he paused, and Gareth registered a hint of surprise in his voice.

"Do we know you?" he asked, almost mildly polite.

Gareth lurched to his feet, and winced at the sunlight leaking through the clouds.

"Uh, I don't–" he started, feeling nervous.

Just then the Breton punched him in the face. He fell back wards again, blood trickling hotly down his cheek. His breath was shallow and wet.

"Don't tell me you thought we'd just forgotten about you," the Breton said quietly. Gareth stood up shakily, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Before him stood the three thieves. "I don't like witnesses. You know a _little_ too much."

The Breton unsheathed a thick, gleaming sword. Gareth could almost smell the heat of the magic inside the steel. It bubbled and hissed angrily. He found himself wishing Lathon was there.

He was still slightly drunk. Regretting his little detour greatly, he cursed Laenafil. She couldn't possibly be in on this, though. She was more wasted than he was, still snoring at the Inn's bar.

"How do we get rid of his body, Davide?" Never-Cleans-Sword hissed, her tail flicking over her shoulder.

"Leave that to me. Elidor, make sure he doesn't run."

The High Elf nodded, and took a step towards Gareth, iron war-hammer raised. He was at least a foot taller, though skinny, and his face was bent into a twisted grin.

Just as Elidor raised his hammer, Gareth shoved his hands out in front of him. Summoning up the last bit of sober courage he had inside of him, he forced a bit of magic out through his palm, and up his fingers.

A shower of sparks and flames erupted from his fingertips, and engulfed Elidor on a spitting, fuming ball. He shrieked, and tried desperately to shake it off.

It was no help. The High Elf was burning to death. His screams died to moans, and then silence. He slumped into the gray muddied road, and he lay still, smoke curling snake-like off of his shriveled body.

Vaguely, through the heavy, hard beating of his heart, Gareth could hear someone calling his name, unsheathing a sword.

The last thing he saw before he passed out was the silhouettes of an Argonian and a Breton, dark against the weeping sky, and Laenafil's anxious face.


	4. Chapter 4: Ruin

**Note: Laenafil is my sister, woodelevesrock42's character, and for the record, she really is a lovely person. Just a little, uh, colorful. Also, sorry for the late update (if anyone is reading this :P), but Skyrim came out, school started, and, well, yeah. Anyway, I hope you like this and keep on reading. Thanks.**

"Okay, Gareth. I'm going to count to three, and then I'm punching you in the face. One, two–"

"Seriously, Lathon, he's not going to come out of _unconsciousness_ is you _threaten to slap him_."

"Oh yeah? What proof do you have?"

"He's _unconscious_ you skooma-sucking–"

Gareth awoke to an immense headache and the sound of arguing. Blinking once, he started tp yawn, his mouth feeling stiff and rusty. Suddenly, he felt a hand connect hard with his cheek.

"Oh Azura, Lathon, he's _awake_." Laenafil groaned. Gareth sat up shakily, feeling his face. Lathon, grinning proudly, was massaging his hand.

"Gareth! Buddy!" Before Gareth could react furthur, his friend lept upon him, tackling him back to the ground. "I missed you, old pal!"

"Missed me?" Gareth mumbled from beneath Lathon's outstretched arm. "How long have I been out?"

It was then that he realized where they were. Sunlight filtered weakly through a cracked stone roof, and thick, dark vines grew twixt the openings. A ruin. He rubbed his eyes again, and peeled the hysterical Lathon from him.

"About five days," Laenafil said, sounding slightly miffed. "And this idiot here thought you were dead."

Gareth gaped at her.

"Five whole days? What happened?"

"Hangover, buddy. And extreme use of magic. You really lost all stamina and magicka you had on frying that slimy little bastard," Lathon explained as he adjusted his armor.

It came back to him. The fire. Bursting, wild, from his fingertips. He flexed his palms out before him, and studied the pale skin. It looked exactly the same as it had before.

He wiggled his pointed finger, and a trickle of flame crackled.

"Whoa! What in the name of Oblivion are you doing?" Laenafil shouted, stumbling back. "Watch where you point those, Gareth!"

Gareth couldn't help it. He cracked a grin. Shouldering his abandoned pack, he stood, and looked down at the two people before him.

"Well?" he smiled again. "The City's waiting."

Lathon gaped at him.

"You've been out for five days, and you're already ready to move?" he clutched at his head. "I mean, I've heard of some pretty strong regeneration magicka, but this is ridiculous.

"Oh, c'mon," Laenafil huffed, flicking her thick ponytail over her shoulder. "The Champion of Cyrodiil herself has done better than that,"

"Oh and I'm Sheogorath, cheese for everyone," Gareth rolled his eyes. "You can't even look at a pub without getting drunk, let alone destroy Daedra all willy-nilly like."

Laenafil just gave a sly smirk, and flicked her ponytail again. It caught the light in just a way to send sharp, icy shivers down Gareth's spine.

"I'm deadlier than I look, kid,"

And she was off through the entrance of the ruin.

••••••••••••••••••

The man in black watched the three leave the ruin. He'd been waiting for days. Five long, gray days, sitting silent through sheets of heavy rain, gusts of frigid wind. The man in black never moved, though. He stayed, and waited.

And now he followed. It was easier than he'd originally thought. He made a mental note to train new recruits well in sneak.

The trees served as thin protection for him when his spells wavered. Still, he was worried about the elf. She had a mean, alert look in her eyes, and she kept snapping her head back to stare evenly at the place the man in black had just occupied.

Darting, shifting throughout the trees, the man in black's eyes never left the back of the Breton's head. He'd gone to scout the ruthless Redguard, but something had stopped him. An inn, masked in darkness and filth, suddenly alight with golden flames. He remembered it well, from his perch in an upstairs window.

The man in black smiled to himself. He'd have to take care of the Bosmer and the Redguard, but what was too more murders in the face of great achievement? This was a power he had never witnessed before.

Fading into nothing, the man in black drew slowly his sword of silver.


	5. Chapter 5: Come, Brother

**Note: I really have nothing to say here. I just like typing in bold. :)**

Laenafil was nervous. Something in the way the trees swayed, when she turned to stare at them. As if they were being watched.

Lathon had never felt better. He smiled to himself, and breathed in the deep, forest air. Daring a glance over at Laenafil, he grinned again.

Gareth wondered how his father was doing. How he was keeping the apartment. He felt the weight of the gold in his pocket, and a dose of new guilt wormed into his heart. What if Timothee was homeless? Dying? All alone?

They walked for miles. The sun set. The trees grew dark and twisted, and icy wind slithered across the ground. And still they walked.

Laenafil had had enough. She turned one last time, and this time she found the follower.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Dammit!" The man in black drew his sword with the quickness of an expert. He sucked in a deep, rough breath, and lunged forward, flicking his wrist upward, towards the elf's angry face.

She blocked it. Threw up her own blade just in time. The man in black narrowed his eyes as he observed the thin sparks of magic twining the thick steel sword. The elf snarled something nasty, and jerked her blade up again, aiming for a surprise attack. But the man in black wasn't done yet. He had a few tricks up his sleeve yet. Throwing a hand into the air, he muttered something unintelligible, and braced himself.

Gareth read it on his face. The dark attacker was aiming for some sort of spell, and the magic gathered in his gloved palm like ants to an abandoned meal.

"Laenafil, move!" he yelled, twisting to get a better view of the battle. She turned for a split second, her face etched with frustration.

"What in the name of Oblivion–" She spat, rolling dutifully out of the way as a jet of thick red flames shot past, inches away from her face. The blast was returned by Gareth, who growled with anger as he caught sight of the man's face.

He was _smiling_.

"Lathon NOW!" Gareth gathered the flames in his hand again, and thrust a single thin line of it towards the man in black. "Shoot!"

The man stopped. His smile froze, delicate, on his shadowed face, and he glanced down at his chest. Blood.

He flicked a look over at Gareth, then, a black hand wrapped around the shaft of Lathon's arrow, disappeared.

From above there was a shout of sudden pain. Something fell from the leafy embrace of a tree.

"Lathon!" Laenafil shrieked. Gareth followed after her, as she frantically sprinted to the site of their fallen friend.

His face was slicked with rivers of sweat and blood. His eyes, once a friendly shade of brown/gold, were dark and glassy. A spasm of forced breath escaped his lips.

Laenafil pulled the jagged dagger from his chest, dark blood staining her hands.

"No, no, no, don't do this to me, Lathon," she was muttering, mumbling. Gareth stared down at them.

So much blood.

"Gareth _do_ something!" She screamed, clutching at his boots, leaving a ruby trail on the leather. "Do something, now!"

It was then that he noticed what was attached to the knife. He bent down, and scooped it up in trembling hands.

THE NIGHT MOTHER CALLS. Blue ink on yellowed paper.

"Gareth, _please_!"

COME, BROTHER.


	6. Chapter 6: Below the Stars

**Note: I got Fallout 3 for Christmas *psychotic grin*. Sorry, just had to do that. Also, new Chevelle albums! wait, what am I doing, nobody knows what I'm talking about. Sorry! Back to the fic :)**

The man in black lay quietly below the stars. There were many of them tonight. He'd always liked the way they pulsed in the bruised night sky. Like beating hearts in the body of a victim.

The wound still hurt, of course. That Redguard, hidden in the tree, and nailed him just below his heart, and nicked a rib. He should have seen it coming. He was too distracted, too arrogant. But the Redguard paid, and the man in black had healed himself sufficiently.

"He will come." he smiled, and closed his eyes. "Gareth Laul, you will come"

...

They laid Lathon below the stars. Silently, they mourned. Darkness shrouded the scene in a gentle, soft serenity that chilled them to the bone.

There were no flowers to pick, no flowers to decorate his makeshift grave. The grass was black with Lathon's blood. A lone wolf, bright-eyed and sorrowful, watched from the bending trees.

Gareth closed his eyes. The wind was still, there. He felt Laenafil beside him, her breath shallow and forced. She started to cry little harsh sobs, punctuated with elven swears.

"Lathon," Gareth said quietly. "I'm not giving up on you. I'm not letting you die, okay?"

The silence was dry and cold.

"This isn't over," Laenafil snarled, her hands clenched into fists, her eyes red with crying. "I'm gonna find that bastard, and show him what the Champion of Cyrodiil thinks about this,"

The wolf slipped off with a stealthy howl.

"Laenafil," Gareth hissed. He felt the slip of paper in his palm. "I know where to find him."

He unfurled his map, slowly, and traced a finger down the road, until it reached Imperial City.

"He's here. He's waiting for me."

She just nodded, and sniffed.

"Gareth?"

"Yeah, Laenafil?"

"S-sorry I got you drunk and everything. It's just..." She paused, and sucked in a rough breath. "It gets lonely, out here."

"Even for the Champion of Cyrodiil?" he slipped his hand into hers. She didn't resist.

"Especially for the Champion of Cyrodiil."

She wrapped her arms around him, and buried her face in his shoulder. They stayed there, twined together like twin roses for a moment. Gareth raised his head, and looked up at the sky.

"For Lathon." he said, drawing forth his sword of silver.

"For Lathon," Laenafil said, raising her weapon above her head with still hands.

Together, they walked below the stars.


	7. Chapter 7: Sunshine

**Note:**** Alrighty, loyal readers (are you real? really? not ghosts?). Sorry if you liked Lathon, but the story needed some tension! Maybe I'll have a necromancer bring him back, or something. What do you think?**

"Wait a minute, little lady." the guard held out a gloved hand, and raised an eyebrow. "What's your business here?"

Laenafil clenched her fists.

"_Little lady_?" she growled. Poking the disgruntled man in his plated chest, she narrowed her eyes dangerously. "Do you know who I am? _Do you?_"

"Uh, n-no, I–"

"By Azura, by Azura, by Azura!" From the gate came a nearly unintelligible squeal of delight. Gareth, who had been watching, amused, from a distance, cringed. He looked up to see a sharp point of shocking orange hair bobbing around Laenafil in a blur.

"Dammit! You again? I thought I got rid of you back at that troll's cave!" Laenafil groaned.

"May I shine your boots, Grand Champion? A back-rub, perhaps?" the tiny elf boy was grinning ear-to-literal-ear.

"That's just creepy."

The guard recognized her suddenly.

"Good gods, the Champion of Cyrodiil! Please, exuse me ma'am! I didn't realize! Can I have your autograph?" He clung to her arm, drooling like an idiot.

"Gareth!" Laenafil shrieked, looking panicked. "Gareth, help!"

He was too busy laughing. The two fanboys were now bowing to her from their knees, sobbing out words of praise. The gate, left wide open, was now attracting a crowd of confused civilians, who soon recognized Laenafil as well.

The sun let loose a few watery rays of sunlight, and Gareth smiled, feeling the best he had since Lathon, to weeks ago. It was a beautiful day. His dream was coming true. And word from his father was _sure_ to come soon.

"Gareth, you little piece of troll fodder, come get rid of these idiots!"

Yes, the day was certainly looking up.

**Another Author's Note Because She Just Had An Energy Drink And Has No Friends (jk): Sorry this chapter is so short. Just needed a little comedic relief :) happy weekend and all of you please have an amazing, fun-filled 2012, with no zombies or demon-butlers (if you get that reference, I officially worship you :) )  
><strong>


	8. Chapter 8: The Color Red

**Note: Oookay then. Hello. This winter is frakking with my mind. Here in SF it's mild and sunny. Gah! I wanted to wear mittens, too :( (Not that it snows here, 'cause it DOESN'T). Wait, concentrate, concentrate! Right. Enjoy this chapter. I thought we needed a different perspective on the whole situation, so here goes.  
><strong>

The young woman had lived on the streets her whole life. She was born in rags, and she inevitably would die in the same soiled gutters she spent her childhood roaming. She didn't mind. If she never knew luxury, how could she miss it?

The day she remembered the best was the day the sky turned red. She could never think of red as apples. Never of roses. It was always blood to her. Blood and the sharp, acrid scent of living Hell. The Daedra spilled out in crooked rows. Her streets were torn like weed from the loose cobblestones, and she had no choice, no choice but to run.

She never made it.

Funny, though, how she'd woken up the next day, feeling distant and weightless. As if all the heaviness of living had been sucked from her bones. She was a ghost. This, she was quick to discover.

Mostly she liked to haunt the Imperial City at random, picking up dry laughs now and then. She was soulless, and she didn't really mind. At least now, she wouldn't go hungry in the dark. But today, it was different. What was that feeling she felt? It was oddly warm, and stuck in her translucent body like bone marrow to the paws of a wild troll.

"This place is so huge!" the young man would say to his companion. He'd raise his head and stare avidly at the gray stone of the Imperial City walls, mesmerized.

"It isn't if you're trying to hide from FANBOYS!" The pretty elf girl would snarl over her shoulder, shooting daggers at her crowd of admirers. The young woman would drift behind them slightly, hungry for more. They had an air about them she just found so..._alluring_. Was it the fact that they were strangers? Or maybe it was because they weren't the shallow, selfish merchants that clogged the storefronts with illegal goods? She couldn't decide.

But there was a sadness to them. It clouded their bright eyes. Bent down their lean shoulders, and held down their smiles. She hated the sadness. It pained her. Chilled her. Tore her. What was it that made them so careful of the shadows? So suspicious of the darkness? She wanted to know, wanted to fix it, and show them she was there.

One night, she followed them into their inn.

The elf closed the door, and leaned against the wall. Thin and splintered, it barely supported the weight of her golden armor. The young woman watched, intrigued.

There was a silence to quiet a storm. The elf girl would sigh. She would take a shuddering breath, and close her eyes, shoulders set.

And then she would cry.

The boy was different. He'd never sleep. The dark hours would come and go, and he'd just stay awake, staring ahead of him with passive, glassy eyes. Just staring.

She felt to _sorry_ for them. She wanted to help them. Desperately. So she did. When the boy told the girl he wanted to be a merchant, the young woman ghost had pulled some supernatural strings, and planned an "accident" for a stingy Nord shopowner who lived in the Temple District. The boy came back to their room, and told the girl, excitedly, about the storefront he'd bought, and how he was setting up shop in a week. She'd smile, and laugh, and they'd get drunk in the early evening hours. The young woman was pleased at first. She'd fixed them, she thought.

That night, the girl cried and the boy stayed up alone in the dark.

Confused, the young woman kept to the room, and, when the boy went off to work and the girl wandered off to salvage an Ayleid ruin, she searched it. Head to toe. Buckled-low roof to sagging, mossy floor. Under the thin skeleton of the bed, and in the splintered dresser drawers.

It was there that she met the Other One.

He'd hidden for so long. She was surprised she'd never noticed this ghost before, even more surprised that he'd never tried to contact her. They'd been following the same people.

"Hello?" she said tentatively, as she watched him unfold from the dresser. "What's your name?"

He looked at her, a tinny smile on his fading face.

"Lathon." he replied, with a slight echo. "My name's Lathon Litte."


	9. Chapter 9: Stranger

**Note: My twin sister is being a pain in my ass. Read her Psych fic, or she will haunt you next. It's called "The Thorn in My Side" by woodelevesrock42. Do it now, or you may find a bespectacled teenage girl outside your window, singing "Don't Talk With Your Mouth Open" by Heartsounds. You have been warned.**

Gareth, closing shop for the day, gathered his cloak, and sighed. It had been nearly four months since Lathon, and even longer since he'd left home. He threw the cloak over his shoulders. Now, since he was a merchant, he was able to afford clothes he'd hadn't even been able to _look at_ before. The cloak was made of a fine, thin wool, lined with wolf pelt.

"Off for the night?" his Imperial assistant, Ley Lerus, called from behind the counter. Ley was a dark-haired, gloomy kid, a few years younger than Gareth.

"Do you mind locking the door for me, Ley?" he said in reply, shaking dust off of his hood, and slipping it over his head. Ley raised an eyebrow, and disappeared behind a stack of new Elven goods.

• • • • • • •

The streets were dangerous at night. Gareth was well aware of that. But, lately, he'd noticed the beggars and thieves giving him a wide berth. They'd creep up, short swords drawn, then suddenly stumble backwards, a look of utter terror on their faces. Gareth, confused, left the matter unsolved in his busy mind, and would continue on his way, a bit more wary.

He arrived late to his inn room that night (he'd stopped to mail a letter packed with gold to Timothee, who was planning to retire), and came to a bar full of flies and vomit.

Dodging the drunken Nords and quarrelsome Khajiits, he slumped up the stairs. Really, he hadn't realized how deadbeat tired he was. He unlocked the door clumsily, and yawned to himself.

"Laenafil?" There was no reply. He didn't worry. She was often late, only to show up later that night, with an armful of assorted useless trinkets.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and smiled.

• • • • • • •

The night brought a strange dream. Something dark and something gray. He jolted out of bed, still in his cloak.

The candle had melted into barely a stump, and it's flame was putrid and chalky with smoke. Gareth ran a hand over his face, groaning.

"Tired, Gareth Laul?"

His eyelids snapped open. Gasping, he jerked his head around, searching for the source of the noise.

There was an edgy chuckle.

"You won't find me, Laul, unless I show myself," the voice was a man's, musing and mirthless. Gareth reached for the dagger Laenafil had left behind on the dresser.

"Why don't you do that, then?" Gareth said as amiably as he could. "Show yourself. Be a friend." If he couldn't see the man, what gave him reason to believe the man could see him? He wrapped a hand around the dagger's hilt.

"I don't think you want to do that." The man snapped. "You see, I come with a proposition."

Gareth was fully awake now. His senses were on fire, his heart banging around, slippery, in his ribcage. No, he'd have to talk his way out of this situation.

"What are you proposing?" he said, quietly, not removing his hand from the hilt. Sweat was pooling in his palms. "I'm not a stupid man, Mr..."

"Ah. You may call me..." the man paused, as if contemplating his own existence. "Lachance. Lucien Lachance. I am the Speaker, the representative, should I say, of an...agency, which is... interested... in your talents,"

A heavy silence. Gareth breathed in sharply. Talents? He was a merchant, not a goddamn circus act.

"I don't think I follow you, _Lucien Lachance," _he narrowed his eyes. "I think I would trust you a whole lot more if I could just see you."

The candle flickered. Something heavy tread on a loose floorboard.

"Oh, I don't think you would, Laul. You see, there is a...complication." He was whistling now, under his breath, as he moved, unseen, across the room.

"I'm not trusting an invisible stranger," Gareth snarled, tensing his hand. He was waiting, waiting for the creaks, barely audible, to reach where he sat.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Gareth Laul," the man laughed again, and a board close to the bed groaned. "I'm no stranger."


	10. Chapter 10: Accidents

**Note: So, I really like the Dark Brotherhood. You've probably guessed that by now. But really, who _doesn't?_ I mean, you get freakin' badass armor, and that grumpy horse, and all that! What more could a girl want? What's that? Friends? Of course I have friends, don't be ridiculous *insert nervous laugh*. Enjoy.**

"We've met."

"Of course we have, Laul. Don't you remember me?"

"No."

"Why, I'm offended!" The man sounded amused. Gareth felt anger rising, and his magic began to broil in his fingertips. But no use wasting it now. He'd have to wait until he had a clear idea where the insufferable bastard was.

"Get out of here now, or I set fire to your thick skull," he growled, raising his hand. The man tittered, sighing.

"Manners, manners. Of course I'll be out of here, but first, the proposition," he cleared his throat. "I'm going to ask you to join the Dark Brotherhood. I'm not going to force you, or drag you back to the base, or anything. Just going to ask."

"Oh, really? And if I say no?" Gareth could hear the faint swish of breath beneath a hood.

"You won't." The man sounded infuriatingly sure.

"Yeah? Try me."

Another chuckle.

"If you say no, I'll be forced to..._persuade_ you. That pretty girl? How's she doing right now? Rid of her drinking problem?"

"You shut up about her, you son of a–" Gareth had to force the fire back down into his palm, breathing heavily.

"And your poor, elderly father, Captain of the Bravil Guard. Such a _shame_, those slippery docks. They're an _accident_ bound to happen."

Gareth could barely think. Panic bit at the back of his skull, and his vision was fuzzy with rage. It wouldn't happen, not again, not like Lathon. he wouldn't let it.

There was a silence. A dark, heavy silence. The candle flickered, and spat.

"And if I say yes?" he said, quietly.

"Good boy. You just meet me in Cheydinhal. A bit of boarded windows here, some broken glass there, answer a question, and you're in," There was a definite pop, and a flapping of a coat. "Nighty-night now, Laul. I'll be expecting you in a month's time."

The candle went out with a gust of sudden, unexplainable wind.

• • • • • • •

The young woman had gotten used to Lathon Litte by now. He was a chatty fellow, and handsome. Too bad, she mused, that he was dead like her.

"You've been following Gareth and Laenafil?" he laughed, one night, seated next to her on an empty crate in the Market District, watching the beggars. "Well, I can't say they aren't interesting."

The young woman smiled sadly. She let her arm float a little, and merge into the crate. They sat in silence for a bit, then, as the moon rose higher and higher in the deep velvet sky, they sat up.

Gareth was walking home. The beggars and the thieves melted from the shadows, hungry for loose change or blood.

The young woman let herself rise a bit. Lathon followed, grinning. It was a nightly routine, one purely to amuse themselves, and spare Gareth the trouble of taking out a few scrappy scoundrels. It would weigh on his conscience, Lathon explained. Best for us to handle it.

Lathon went first. He grabbed the nearest beggar by the scruffy shirtfront, and shook him slightly. The old man, confused, took a stumbling step back. He dropped his rusty dagger, mouth ajar, and eyes wide with fear.

"T-Talos, help me!" he moaned, scrambling backwards, as Lathon loomed above him, doubled-up in laughter. "He's a d-demon!"

Gareth didn't even stop. He just spared the hunched-over thief a sideways, quizzical glance.

The young woman circled the large girl, who was swiping the air around her with her bent longsword, snarling.

"Dammit! Get away from me, you creeper!" She stared, terrified, at the blank-faced Gareth. Then, whimpering, she darted off.

Lathon and the young woman shared a last, lengthy laugh, and watched as Gareth walked safely away, looking over his shoulder with a look of almost mournful amusement on his face.

Lathon turned towards his fellow ghost.

"Same time tomorrow night?" he asked, drifting back down to the dusty crates. She nodded. "By the way, you never told me your name."

"Oh. I'm...Rose, I think." She said, somewhat dreamily. Was that her name? She could hardly remember anything, besides the fire, the Daedra, the sky stained with the blood of thousands.

"Rose," Lathon grinned again. He seemed to do so often. "I like that." And he floated off, waving at her with a pale blue hand.

If Rose hadn't been concentrated on that last, fleeting wave, a warm fluttering feeling coming over her, she might have noticed who was walking beneath her. She might have seen, if only briefly, a dark cloak and a pale face, as the man in black opened an inn's door, and slipped inside.


	11. Chapter 11: Envious Liars

**Note: Hey. You. Thanks for (still) reading. :) I know you're all busy fighting dragons in Skyrim. If woodelvesrock42 let me even touch the PS3, I would be too. So thanks.  
><strong>

"Laenafil," Gareth was unusually quiet. He watched her from behind the counter, his normally clear blue eyes dark with something like fear. "Laenafil, I have to leave."

She slammed her palms down on the counter, her own eyes livid.

"Leave? Gareth, this is your _dream_. And you're telling me you want to leave?" She was screaming now. The store was closed for the night, and outside, the drunken calls of an off-duty guard plagued the air like a bad song. "What the hell, man?"

He couldn't tell her. Couldn't bear. She was all he had left, all he had to hold onto. He sighed, and wiped some dust off his sleeve.

"I have to do something, okay? Important."

She wasn't buying it. She looked almost pained, for a minute, and she bit her lip, frowning.

"It's about Lathon, isn't it?" she asked quietly. "It's about him, right?"

Gareth took a deep breath. He hated the dead darkness in her eyes when she talked about Lathon.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is. Please, Laenafil, just let me do this, okay?" He narrowed his eyes. "Alone."

She threw her hands up in frustration, but Gareth could see the pity in her eyes. Guilt flooded his veins. But there was no time for that.

Laenafil suddenly reached over the counter, and grabbed him in a tight hug, her chainmail scratching into his face.

"Just don't die, okay, Gareth?" she said, a bit too loud. "I wanna see your stupid face when you get back."

He packed little. The darkest clothes he had, his sword, a few wrapped packages of food and meds, and the last bit of his father's gold.

As he closed the heavy door behind him, and slipped across the inky stillness of the sleeping city, Gareth couldn't help but feel strangely as if he wasn't coming back for a long, long time.

• • • • •

Laenafil wasn't an idiot. She knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

She leaned against the stone city wall, arms crossed. From her position, she could easily see into the forest beyond, the sky merging with the treetops in a melting shade of blue. She hated the city. It smelled like shit, and she wished dearly that one day, she'd die alone in the embrace of the forest, with the sky above her, and the soil below her, and–

"I know you're watching me, kid," she stared at the crate across the street.

A sharp _ow!_ and the sound of shuffling feet.

The kid stepped reluctantly out from behind the crate, looking forcibly bored.

"Ley? Don't you work for Gareth?"

He shrugged.

"Sure, whatever." he replied gloomily, pulling his black hood back over his head. "Why do you care?"

In one stride, Laenafil was upon him. She grabbed him by the front of his coat, and frowned into his face, anger blosoming in her heart.

"WHY THE HELL ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME?" she screeched, shaking him slightly.

He shrugged again.

"I overheard the boss talking to someone, the other day."

She stopped. Her breath quickened.

"Who?" she asked, with hushed breath.

Ley stared back at her, utterly disinterested.

"He said his name was Lachance. Lucien Lachance."

Her heart went cold. Stopped for a minute.

"Damn." she dropped Ley, her hands shaking, her face pale. "What in the name of Oblivion have you gotten yourself into, Gareth?"

Ley cleared his throat.

"I know where he's going, too," he said quietly. "Cheydinhal."

Laenafil clutched at her sleeve, desperation leaking out of her like blood from a Daedra.

"I can take you there," he added.

She nodded, and closed her eyes. In the distance, a wolf howled, lonely, in the blank winter air.

"We're gonna follow him."

• • • •

Rose stared mournfully at the woman and the child. She thought of the journey they were about to take, and rocked a little on the wind. Apparently, they were to follow the young man to a place of broken glass and murder. She envied them.

"It's about you, Lathon," she whispered, to herself. "I know it's about you."

She hurried back to where Lathon was waiting, his ghostly form flicking in and out of focus. He was watching the sun crawl behind the black hills with an expression of slight amusement. When Rose arrived at his elbow, he grinned at her, and gave her a small salute.

"Cheerio, there, Rosie. What's up?"

She smiled vaguely.

"Your friends," she whispered. "They're leaving tomorrow, for you."

He frowned.

"For me?"

Rosie nodded. Lathon grabbed her arm. For a minute, they were connected, and his skin was cold like Death.

"Follow them," he pleaded. "Follow them, okay, Rosie? For me?"

She felt oddly empty as she nodded again, and drifted slowly away, her non-existent heart pounding in her transparent chest. Without warning, Lathon reached forward, and pulled her forward, into a sloppy, sideways kiss.

It was wonderfully cold.


	12. Chapter 12: Carry On

**A/N: Hey there! Sorry for this late update, it's been busy! Enjoy :)**

Gareth hated the rain. In Bravil, when he was young, he had liked to scamper the walkways, flurried and shouting, and watch the drops hit the lucky statue and the castle turrets. But now, he preferred the quiet that came with dry weather. The lack of white noise, the solitude. He liked to be alone in his thoughts, without the water to wash away his dreams. It was raining now, as he walked. Heavy, angry drops. Cold and unforgiving.

He missed Imperial City; he truly did. A week had passed, and Gareth began to tire of the autumn leaves and overgrown pathways that populated the whole of Cyrodiil.

"You find a certain quiet on the roads. A lovely quiet," his father used to say, back from work with a tired face. "But nothing, son, and I mean nothing beats a familiar face and a well-worn city."

A bird would occasionally chirp. Sometimes a mudcrab would wander across a river bend. Once, he narrowly avoided a scrounging wolf, gray fur matted and ribs tearing through the irritated pink of it's stomach. Only twice did Gareth have to fight off bandits. The first was a sly looking, scarred old Orc. The last, a wild woman with leaves in her hair and eyes that hungered for skooma.

Gareth missed his shop. He missed the smell of sweetrolls, and the dirty laughter of beggars. He missed the shady guards and the slippery Khatjiit salesmen. Hell, he even missed Ley, who reminded him more and more of a shadow every day.

But really, he missed Laenafil.

She filled a hole. A hole Gareth had in him since his father had shoved a tiny patched bag of his life savings into his hands and told him to run. Since Lathon, laughing, had given his final smile. Since he'd gotten drunk and careless and killed somebody strange, and Lucien Lachance had knocked on his open door.

Laenafil filled him.

* * *

><p>"So how," said Ley, once they'd packed their bags and set towards the gate. "Did you meet the bossman?"<p>

"Who, Gareth?" Laenafil smirked. "He got drunk as a dog and nearly got himself killed."

"Dogs don't get drunk." Ley stared at her with solemn eyes.

"Oh...well..." she tapered off awkwardly, and shoved away a woman asking for her autograph. "I saved his ass, that's what matters."

She looked at him sideways. He was younger than Gareth and herself, but only by a few years, she guessed. The Imperial in him was clear; he looked like a city-dweller.

"You never set foot in the forests, have you, Ley?" she asked.

He looked slightly flustered.

"Course I have." His cheeks flushed red. "Plenty of times."

"You're lying." She laughed. "You even touched a sword?"

Ley frowned.

Laenafil raised her hands in apology, chuckling.

"Sorry, sorry. Just playing."

"At least I'm not a short drunk." He muttered, still blushing.

In a single second, she had him down. Laenafil grabbed his wrist, and yanke dit behind his back, shoving him, face-first, against the grimy city wall.

"You wanna try 'short drunk' again?" She hissed into his ear. "G'head. Try me."

"Fine! Fine!" Ley twisted angrily against her grip. "Talos, you've got a temper."

Yeah, thought Laenafil, as she let his wrist go, and stepped back. I'm the crazy one.

They continued on in complete silence.

She couldn't help but wonder-how the hell was she going to do this? She hadn't lasted an hour without wanting to kill Ley, and she had no idea how to take down a mass murdering shadow assassin.

Or how to convince Gareth not to do anything stupid.

And that, sighed the wood elf, as she followed her reluctant guide, was what worried her most of all.


End file.
